The Night After
by petite etoile22
Summary: Ruth finds comfort and encouragement from an unlikely source. *SPOILERS FOR EP 8.1*


_**Author's Note: **This inspired by 8.1, and the subsequent chatterings on the forum with particular inspiration from nonsenseandmischief._

_**Disclaimer:** BBC/Kudos own Spooks, I don't._

* * *

They leave her alone for five hours.

A part of her (the more rational part) is grateful for that brief respite. She doesn't want to talk Harry. She doesn't think she's ready to face the myriad of questions that will arise from his mere presence. She angry, livid in fact, and being angry is easier than being relieved that he's alive. Anger is more than just an 'easy' emotion; it's simple and elegant. She can afford to be blind with anger, she can avoid the fact that she is now the single mother of a traumatised boy with no home and no father. The words 'simple' and 'elegant' no longer exist, for either of them. The sound of the doorbell rouses her from her mournful reverie.

It's source is elegant, but far from simple.

"Ruth."

"Rosalind."

"May I come in? Don't worry, I'm not bugged," she states with a supercilious quirk of her eyebrow. This time however, Ruth doesn't feel an inch tall.

"At least you asked this time."

The blonde makes no comment about the sleeping boy on the sofa, and merely follows Ruth into the kitchen.

"Tea?"

"I was think more along the lines of wine," she suggests, procuring a bottle from behind her back. "I know you're not a vodka kind of person."

"And you are?"

"I was. For a while."

Ruth recalls the chemistry between Ros and Adam, and Jo's muted whispers about something to do with Moscow and a car bomb. It seems she wasn't the only one to find something akin to love in the Service. She wordlessly finds two mugs and a rusty corkscrew; the Service's attempts to curb the alcohol intake of its various associates. She takes a generous sip of the generous measures Ros has poured, and takes the time to look at her companion. The blonde is thinner than she remembers, harder too, and behind the icy veneer there is a pervading sense of exhaustion. She's been gone for three years, but Ros has aged three decades.

"Why?"

"Why am I here?" For a split second, the blonde looks bemused.

"No. Why were you an alcoholic?"

"I wasn't."

It's Ruth's turn to raise her eyebrow, this time in scornful disbelief. She has no time, nor energy for pleasantries. "You expect me to think you're being honest?"

"But I am, you of all people should know that dead traitors can't be anything but that."

"You faked your death?" Ruth laughs, she can't help but see the irony of the situation. She manages to stop herself before the laughter turns into tears. There is a fine line, and she doesn't want to cross it just yet.

"Not quite. I was dead, and then I wasn't. I died."

The last part is a whisper, and Ruth can't help but wonder if this woman before her actually has weaker moments where she wishes she were dead.

"What happened?"

"There was an interlude, and then I came back."

Ruth wants to know more about this interlude but doubts Ros will disclose anything. She suspects even Five don't know the full story of the woman's time away.

"What job did you get?" In Ruth's experience, mundane questions are always easier to answer, easier to hear.

"This one."

In her time away, she forgot that Ros doesn't do easy.

"I worked in a hospital."

"I know. It's where you met your husband, and everyday at six you went swimming or to the market. Your life was _simple _and _elegant_."

"Is nothing of mine safe from you people?" Ruth snaps, the first wave of anger bubbling to the surface.

"The room was bugged."

"So you listened to the tapes?"

"It's my job to listen."

Ruth shakes her head vehemently. "You're a spy, not a bloody therapist!"

The blonde merely gazes over her shoulder. "If you carry on like this, you'll wake the boy."

"His name is Nico!" she hisses, and before she can stop herself, the hiss turns into a shuddering breath, and then sobs.

Ros patiently sips her wine from the chipped mug, waiting for Ruth to calm down or tire herself out, as if she were a small child having a tantrum.

"Finished?"

"You bitch. Why _are_ you here?"

"Because I got you into this mess," Ros answers simply.

Ruth can't accept that answer this time. She can no longer play convoluted blame games. Right now, in her mind, in her _heart_, there is only one person to blame.

"He was doing his job, Ruth."

"That's not good enough."

"Ruth-"

"That is not bloody good enough!" Ruth snaps. "Two and a half years ago, when I was stood on a dock in the pissing rain because of your actions, he wanted to tell me he loved me. If he loved me, why couldn't save my family?"

"Because there are bigger things-"

"Spare me all 'the greater good' bullshit. You plotted a coup and murdered my friend because of it."

"Then spare me all the 'I'm so angry at Harry' bullshit. Because you're not; you're angry with yourself because you're relieved he's alive. And you're relieved because you still love him. You still care, Cinderella."

"But does he care? He said it wouldn't make a difference if they shot him. He looked me in the eye and said he didn't care about my son, my little boy."

"But he isn't yours Ruth. You might love him, but you barely know him."

"How da-"

Ros raises a hand and cuts her dead. "Harry's a good man. Sometimes, we have to make choices Ruth. It doesn't mean we're proud of them, even if they're the right ones in the end. Talk to him."

"I can't," she whispers.

"You died, I understand. You were dead and you were happy, and now your husband's just been executed and you have a little boy to care of. You don't have to do it alone though."

"But I have nothing. You've taken everything from me _again_."

Ros merely shakes her head in annoyance and walks to the front door. She is about to leave, when some force inextricably pulls her back, her movements slightly awkward. She reminds Ruth of a marionette with one of its strings cut; the blonde is leaving her emotional comfort zone, a rare occurrence.

"You're wrong. Tomorrow, you'll wake up with a boy who could be your son and a man who loves you. All I got was a smile, an utterance, and a corpse; but that's irrelevant," she states with subtlest of smiles. "After everything you've done for this country, don't you think it's time you finally got what you deserve?"

She disappears before Ruth can formulate an answer. It is only when the dark-haired woman locks the door behind her, does she discover the phone placed in her pocket. There is only one number, and she knows where it will lead; to questions that she will have to both ask and answer.

Tomorrow sounds like a good time to begin.


End file.
